


All His Wild Works

by Argyle



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: 5 Things, Caning, Dark Magic, Dracula Loves a Bit of Fur, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Fairy Tale Elements, Frottage, M/M, Mad Science, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27208690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Four times Jonathan dreams of Dracula—and one time it isn't a dream.
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Comments: 10
Kudos: 64





	All His Wild Works

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a little bit of Dracula/Jonathan dress up in honor of my favorite holiday :) Happy Halloween!

Jonathan is running late.

Which is odd—he's certain he left his room hours before. And then again, wasn't it far longer than that? He recalls completing his schooling years ago now.

Yet the final bell has rung. The hall is empty. And his headmaster is saying, "A word, if you would, Mr. Harker."

Jonathan follows him into his office. "I—I'm—" he stammers. It's a struggle to meet the man's eyes. Were they always so penetrating? So red?

"Yes? What excuse will it be today?"

"Er. That is, I can't remember..."

"Perhaps I may help to refresh your memory on the matter." The man who is in fact not his headmaster at all motions him forward, and he knows well what to do next. He sets his hands on the edge of the desk and clenches his jaw and locks his knees, and when the cane makes impact with his tweed-clad backside, he manages not to cry out.

He's not so lucky the second time, nor the third.

"Fuck," he whines, shuddering at the exquisite jolt of pain.

Laughter, a cool, familiar puff of breath at his ear. "What's that?"

"Please— _punish_ me—"

And Dracula is happy to oblige.

*

Jonathan is bleeding.

Drip, drip, it drops from the gash on his hand into the chalice, the last addition to the tincture, the final act to complete the summoning spell—save for the will, and oh how he _wants_.

Save for the words.

He says them. And for a long moment, nothing happens.

Then the room seems to tilt on its axis, and the candles on the altar abruptly snuff out. By the time Jonathan fumbles with his tinderbox to get one relit, he's no longer alone. A mass of luminescent mist, substantial if shifting – and possessed of _presence_ – looms before him.

"I did it," Jonathan gasps excitedly. "I bloody did it."

"And what will you do?" asks the demon-thing, now reforming into the shape of a man. Tall, lean, with black hair and black eyes and a mouth full of very sharp teeth.

"Name you."

"Say it."

" _Dracula._ "

"And you are?"

"Harker. Jonathan Harker."

"Good," comes his reply. "Now, Jonathan Harker, tell me: what do you desire? Wealth? Power?"

"You," says Jonathan. "Only you."

Dracula grins. Effortlessly breaching the chalk-sketch circle, he takes the chalice and drinks its gruesome contents down in one gulp. "And you shall have me."

*

Jonathan cannot move.

Though he does try, straining against the belts which secure the many disparate parts of his naked body he likewise struggles to name – ankles, waist, wrists, arms, throat – to the hard, cold slab. He grunts, determined but strangely unafraid. Then he tries again.

"Easy now," comes a soft, soothing voice to his side. "I'd hate for you to go and tear even a single stitch on your pretty little head."

Jonathan blinks into the darkness. With great effort, he can make out a workbench heaving with tools and instruments and tubes of bubbling elixirs.

Above him, the ceiling is splayed open, revealing a lightning-streaked sky.

Then, at last, the voice's owner shifts into view. He's outfitted in laboratory gear, coat and apron and gloves. His face is partially obscured by a pair of wide, circular goggles, and here and there smudged with dirt and... something else. His dark hair is neatly combed. And he's smiling. Grinning, even. Simmering with excitement.

Jonathan _knows_ him. Yet he's still compelled to ask, his voice creaky with disuse, his dry tongue lolling in his mouth: "Who are you?"

"I am your creator. And you—" Dracula's hand caresses Jonathan's cheek, "—are alive."

*

Jonathan is lost.

He'd been warned – _by whom?_ – not to stray from the path. For his grandmother awaited him. But even at midday the deep, primordial woods are shrouded in near darkness: it's so easy to lose track of where he's going, or where he'd been.

And now that night has fallen in earnest, he's frantic, stricken with fright.

Then: a light.

Jonathan finds himself running towards it, and thank God, it's a small, thatch-roofed cottage, windows all aglow and chimney puffing sweet-smelling smoke, and he realizes gratefully that _this_ is his grandmother's house.

He knocks on the door, calling out, "Hello!"

To which there is no answer.

And so Jonathan lets himself inside—only to meet not his grandmother – _does he even have a grandmother?_ – but a wolf, massive and muscular and black.

What wide ears.

What red eyes.

What huge jaws.

What sharp teeth.

"Hello, my dear," Dracula says in a rich, smooth rumble. "Have you brought me something which might sate my hunger?"

And of course is this not who Jonathan intended to meet all along? He unfastens his cloak and lets it fall about him in a crimson pool. Then he looks up and says: "Yes."

*

Jonathan wakes.

He's surrounded, closed in by wooden walls, a bed of earth, and a hard, cold body beside him. And that is Dracula, his master, his beloved. And they're nestled chest-to-chest in their shared coffin. There's no room to move—

Not that he'd want to.

Dracula shifts, rousing from his own slumber. He dips to nuzzle and nip at Jonathan's throat. "What is it, Johnny?"

"Nothing. Just a dream."

"About?"

Jonathan shivers at the memory. Then: "You." And he feels rather than sees the sly smile spread across Dracula's face. 

"Ah. Was I being good," Dracula grumbles, breathing deeply of Jonathan's hair, his skin, "or bad?"

"Yes," Jonathan manages before Dracula pulls him into a sharp, demanding kiss. Not for the first time, he finds himself so very grateful that Dracula had humored his suggestion that they sleep naked, all the better for this: Dracula's long, articulate fingers snaking round their cocks, aligning and stroking them in twain. Jonathan gasps and rocks into the motion.

Finally Dracula chuckles, well-pleased, "Ah, I do have a knack for getting into your head."

Jonathan laughs, for of course Dracula is nothing if not a permanent resident.

He long ago let him inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Okkervil River.


End file.
